Last Shot
by Potato Fairy
Summary: Zoom in on the rusty razor on the bathroom floor.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Rent. Roger's song is Lullaby by Nickelback.**

**Possible trigger warning for self harm and depression. **

First shot: Roger. Picking out notes in the corner, he's humming to himself and occasionally scribbling something in his notebook. The notebook, tattered and dog-eared after another year, filled with scribbles about eyes and moonlight and glory. You lean forward, brows and lips quirking slightly as you watch him with your usual dry brand of concern. "I offered to get you a new one of those."

He just looks at you and forces a smile, shaking his head. He thinks you don't know why.

You sigh, fiddling with your camera while he disappears back into his little world of broken chords and half-formed rhythms. He's playing with his bare fingers; his last pick cracked apart months ago.

You lift the camera and focus on his face again, noting his furrowed brow and pursed lips. You zoom out as he glances up at you again, glaring at the camera.

"I've got to go," he mutters, standing abruptly and moving toward the door. "Can't concentrate."

Your eyes drop to your lap, suddenly hot and stinging. You miss his brief apologetic look before he shoves the door shut behind him.

* * *

Zoom in on the rusty razor on the bathroom floor.

Loneliness. You'll be completely alone soon, if you allow yourself to stay that long. But haven't you always been alone?

You sink to your knees; the linoleum is cold. It's almost comforting.

The blade presses against your wrist, drawing forth drops of red against your skin. Red like April's hair and Angel's coat and Mimi's lipstick and Collins' blood dripping onto the frozen pavement. It should hurt, but you don't feel it.

Your last thought is for Roger, whether it would hurt him to find you the way he did April.

* * *

"_Speeeeeaak"_

Zoom in on the answering machine.

Just like that, you freeze. You remember the day you recorded it, the day after Maureen left and it was just the two of you in the loft. He had patted you on the back, holding down his laughter for the moment, and gone to the answering machine, haphazardly poking the buttons and saying something about a fresh start.

You hear his voice now, crackling to life over the machine. "Mark? You there? This is...well. It isn't much. But I thought you should hear."

He starts singing, voice raspy and shaking like you've never heard it before.

"I know the feeling...  
Of finding yourself stuck out on a ledge,  
And there ain't no healing from cutting yourself with the jagged edge..."

The razor clatters to the floor, drops of red peppering the dirty linoleum. You don't even notice.

"So just give it one more try to a lullaby, and turn this up on the radio. If you can hear me now, I'm reaching out to let you know that **you're not alone...**

His voice washes over you, the words familiar somehow even though you've never heard them before. He sounds like coming home should feel.

Sometimes you think you don't exist, and you're just a camera catching glimpses of too-short lives.

The witness.

His soft, rough voice, right now. It makes you real. He has been your home for years.

Your eyes are fluttering shut and you're curled up on your side, just listening. He's terrified like he was when he sang to Mimi. You can see him, what you know he looks like now, eyes closed, shoulders shaking but hands steady on the strings.

"And if you can't tell, I'm scared as hell 'cause I can't get you on the telephone..."

You look up, panicking, when he falls silent. He sighs, breath rattling over the phone lines. "...Mark? Are you there?"

You imagine him shaking his head, eyes hardening, closing up again.

"You're probably not even home, I'll just-"

You surge forward, dragging yourself off the cold floor and you're clutching the phone in a death grip, like a lifeline. You force the hoarse words out, through the choking lump in your throat: _"Come home."_

* * *

Pan left. You look up with wet eyes when you hear the door open. You're curled up small on the couch, waiting in the stillness of the loft, camera lying forgotten on the table. It feels like the entire room is waiting with you, waiting to breathe until you hear him come through.

He pulls you against his chest, one hand holding steady against the nape of your neck, and you clutch at his shirt with shaking fingers. He rests his chin on top of your head.

Last shot, Roger. He's humming quietly in your ear, finishing the song. "Just close your eyes..."

You feel his fingers on your hair and over your face, your body relaxing.

Fade out.


End file.
